


Look For the Woman

by flyweeabooty



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Disassociation, F/F, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Light Angst, Multiple Personalities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27624574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyweeabooty/pseuds/flyweeabooty
Summary: Amelie is a prisoner inside of a weapon....Or so Sombra assumes.A little ficlet I threw together after being heavily inspired by Ghost (A Widowmaker Fancomic) which is written and drawn by the lovely https://twitter.com/artbytesslyn
Relationships: Sombra | Olivia Colomar/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Kudos: 16





	Look For the Woman

Amelie was a prisoner - a test subject trapped inside a satellite. She was Laika aboard Sputnik II, a quivering animal in a cage made of wires, tubes, and purple flesh.

_‘How long, Amelie?’_ the crackling voice on the radio asks.

_How long before you starve?_

_Before you asphyxiate?_

_Before exposure freezes you solid?_

Talon had strapped her into the cockpit of a once familiar body turned alien, turned **_wrong_** , and she banged on bullet-proof glass in fruitless rebellion. _The_ _Widowmaker_ was a vessel set to auto-pilot with no manual override - it was only a matter of time before Amelie set her sights on the self-destruct button.

...Or so that was the picture Sombra’s brain had created of her - the image she’d drawn up after weeks of plunging through data, nurse’s charts, and surveillance footage archives. Widowmaker’s lifeless, unwavering gaze only spurred Sombra’s need for a story. A narrative. Something she could pull apart and analyze, and then keep among the clutter at the back of her mind.

She couldn’t have anticipated the two words that would lead her to slash out her fiction and frantically scrawl the truth onto the back of the page.

\---

Dead of night, but she's not sleeping. Her form, slouched forward in a padded scrolly chair, is illuminated by harsh, blue light - even with the brightness turned down and all of her Night Mode filters enabled Sombra still finds herself squinting. And the more she squints, the more her body wills her to shut her eyes completely.

_Café…_

Peeling her eyelids back open, she shifts her gaze to the mug beside her, then leans to peer inside it... empty.

_Dammit_.

Would it kill them to just let her have her own espresso machine in here? A Keurig, even? She knew what the answer would be if she asked: some grumbled, bullshit response about ‘unnecessary expenses.’

Whatever. The trek down to the main lobby was an excuse to stretch, at least.

She signs herself out of the program and minimizes the tab before also signing out of her computer login. It would be a hassle getting back in, especially with the two-step verification process, but leaving her computer unattended always meant putting it on tight lockdown. 

_I should get a raise..._

Not that what she was doing right now had anything to do with work. Well, not _Talon's_ work, anyway. 

Sombra smirks and shrugs idly to herself before tossing aside her lap blanket and rising to a stand. She stretches luxuriously, letting out an exaggerated, cartoonish yawn.

_Still deserve a raise_.

Mug in hand, she exits her office, (if one could call it that - it seemed more like a repurposed closet to her), and begins padding down to the end of the wing.

_Ugh_. 

_Frío._

Not slipping her shoes on was a mistake. She leans up on her tiptoes as she quickens her pace, trying to limit contact with the cool linoleum. 

As soon as she steps foot into the lobby, the motion sensor lights kick on, temporarily blinding her. She screws her eyes shut with a grimace. When she opens them again, she leaps backward with a startled yelp, arm hair raising.

" _¡Ave María!_ " Sombra hisses under her breath, afraid to speak any louder.

There were plenty of weird, freaky things she'd seen thanks to her recent employment with Talon, but the sight before her was still haunting enough to make her blood turn frigid.

Widowmaker is flat on her back, bare naked, and _soaking_ wet. Rivulets pour off her rigid form, collecting in little pools on the ottoman's faux leather exterior. Her dark hair is plastered all around her, and her hands are neatly folded over her stomach. Cloudy, unfocused eyes stare at _nothing_ ; she doesn't even blink to adjust to the light - her pupils shrink, but remain listless.

_La Llorona_...

Irrational, but fitting. Widowmaker's blue, wet skin, did very much make her look like a vengeful ghost, risen out of the frigid depths of a riverbed. 

And if she suddenly started wailing?

_I'd shit myself_.

For several long, tense moments, Sombra stands paralyzed, staring at the nude woman, struggling to make sense of what she's seeing. Widowmaker does not move. Does not speak. And does not, in any way, acknowledge her.

_What the fuck._

_What the fuck??_

_What the fuck. What the fuck. What the_ **_fuck_** _?!_

_Why is she_ **_wet_** _???_

Silence answers her. Sombra doesn't dare draw breath. The only sound is the eerie tap, tap, tap of water as it rolls from Widowmaker’s body down onto the floor.

Sombra takes one tentative step forward. And then another.

Freeze.

Her eyes lock on Widowmaker's chest.

It's subtle, but she can make out the rise and fall of a diaphragm. Smooth. Slow. Regular breathing.

That was wrong - she shouldn't be doing that.

_Araña doesn't breathe_.

The name comes unbidden to her lips, and it frees itself of them before Sombra can stop herself, "... _Amelie?_ "

A sharper inhale among that steady breathing - quiet enough that she just barely catches it. Then, ever-so-softly, "... _Ouí, chérie?_ "

Those two words land like a kiss on the cheek, spoken as if they were addressed to a dear friend, and for just the briefest moment there's a glow in the catatonic woman's amber eyes. 

As quickly as it shone, however, it winks out. The light, the life, is gone again. Widowmaker ceases to breathe - but not with a gasp or a hitch. She just. Stops. As if she'd never breathed at all in the first place. Her eyelids flutter, and then there's focus in her gaze. When she speaks, it's with the cold, deadpan voice Sombra is used to. "Why am I here?"

Sombra starts, shoulders hitching, but then manages to steel her nerves. "You tell me, Araña," she musters a dry retort, "you're the one walking around the place naked." 

No response.

Sombra crosses her arms, her mug clinking against her elbow. "You go for a midnight swim?" she prompts.

"I was in the bath," Widowmaker informs her. She says it matter-of-factly, as if it were the only explanation needed. Either she didn't know, or didn't care to explain, the transition between 'in the bath' and 'laying naked in the lobby.'

"Christ," Sombra sighs, shaking her head. She rubs her face with her free hand. "Let's just… get you back to your room."

\---

_Ouí, chérie?_

_Ouí, chérie?_

_Ouí, chérie?_

Over and over again, the words turn in her restless mind.

Widowmaker's lips had moved, but she hadn't been the one speaking - Sombra was sure of this.

_Te llamé Amelie_ … 

She still felt the lingering warmth of the woman's voice - _Amelie’s_ voice. In her mind's eye, Sombra could almost see her: pink lips, soft smile, head tilted in curiosity.

And it started to make sense. Started to come together.

The truth.

Amelie was not a prisoner.

She was a _guest_. A friend. A lover. 

Someone _The Widowmaker_ had allowed to, maybe even begged to, stay.

Sombra's fingers curl into her pillowcase, fisting in cotton.

_Eat your fucking heart out, doc._

Ziegler's excuse was the tight grip of her own guilt around her neck, and her obsession with having _lost_ her dear friend.

As Sombra's fist clenches, so do her teeth.

_You weren't looking hard enough._

**Author's Note:**

> I named this fic "Look For the Woman" based on one of Widowmaker's in-game voicelines: "cherchez la femme." This phrase was originally derived from cliches in detective fiction wherein the mystery is resolved by finding the victim's female love interest (who is often the culprit), but obviously I've given it a completely different meaning here.


End file.
